


Overheated

by runrarebit



Series: Something Different [1]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alfie only has part of the picture, Angst I guess, Arthur is trying his best, Consent Issues, I have my themes, Insecurity, M/M, Period Typical Bigotry, Personal Hygiene, Self-Indulgent, Trying to negotiate sex with someone who is acting like they're traumatised without talking about it, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator, boy is this just more of my themes, but also explicit consent within that, but not gunplay, guns in the bedroom, let me know if you can think of any tags because I feel like I'm missing some, possible past sexual assault but the context of which is never made clear, rose scented soap, skinny little men with skinny little waists, writers do have their themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:14:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29672658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runrarebit/pseuds/runrarebit
Summary: It’s all good between them. Everything getting sorted. Treaty written down in Ollie’s neat handwriting— then his old friend Sabini makes a big fucking error of judgement.During the meeting with Sabini Alfie decides not to turn on Tommy just yet, which means he then ends up in company with Arthur Shelby more than once, a man whose attentiveness he at first finds irritating, strange, incomprehensible...Or, in which Alfie's cock leads him somewhere he did not expect.
Relationships: Arthur Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: Something Different [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2206035
Comments: 11
Kudos: 22





	Overheated

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: for period typical attitudes, references to anti-Semitism, prejudice against Romani, homophobia, internalised homophobia, consent issues possibly related to past rape/noncon (including the implication it was violent and involved verbal abuse/denigration) but from a pov where this is just speculation, fear of violence in a sexual situation, all the ramifications of having to have a gun on hand to shoot someone you're sleeping with if they do something you don't like- please let me know if I missed any. I am always open to suggestions for triggers to warn for. 
> 
> Well this is self indulgent, full of non canonical nonsense, and I thought I should also mention that it is also inspired by Konbini's fascinating [ Shelter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26183236) , though it's not the same story. I hope anyone who reads enjoys- thank you all for doing so, and for any comments and kudos you might leave! Stay safe out there!

It’s all good between them. Everything getting sorted. Treaty written down in Ollie’s neat handwriting— then his old friend Sabini makes a big fucking error of judgement. He can see the hesitation there, in dark eyes, before the man opens his big fucking mouth and fucks it all up.

A boy, sixteen, son of a cousin or something. A boy of _his type_. Good looking. _Amenable. Do it like the Gypsies do_ , his friend says, _seal it with a marriage_.

A tempting offer. Sixteen is man enough— maybe not old enough to go to war without lying, but he knows of plenty of sixteen year old boys that did and then went on to serve as _men_ — and an Italian boy isn’t a fellow Jew, isn’t him putting his hands where he shouldn’t, and it’s been a while since he’s taken a lover, kept someone in one of the neat little flats he has around the place to keep him warm at night, so everything’s looking fucking _rosy_.

Feeling like maybe he should make something like reciprocation he suggests they might be able to find a girl in return. Not for the fella with the fucked up face, or Sabini himself, but surely there’s got to be one of the bastards that’s not too bad, and there’s a girl he knows of whose father somehow decided it was a smart idea to not only get a girl on a gentile whore, but then bring her home into the house of his wife— and for all she is a good girl, and almost one of them, she has to be looking for a different kind of life away from her stepmother and the world she doesn’t quite fit in. It’d probably be ok— as long as the Italians don’t hurt her, force her to Catholicism—

That’s when his friend, his _enemy_ , makes the error. A tiny grimace, _disgust_ , and how quick he is to assure that the trade of the boy will be enough, that they don’t need any _Jewish woman_ in return. She’s not exactly _that_ , but he doesn’t mention it, just smiles.

Ah. Well.

 _Fuck that_.

Sabini’s right, of course, about the fucking _Gypsies_ — but Thomas Shelby, vicious little shit he is, probably isn’t as clever as he thinks he is, and for now— Well. Let his enemies take each other out. He’s happy to stand at the sidelines ready to gut the winner while they’re wounded.

Still, he hems and haws and makes noises that sound like agreement, but aren’t really, and makes sure by the end of it that no one other than Ollie’s put pen to paper.

Then Tommy saddles him with the elder Shelby, _Arthur_. Says they should meet, since his brother will be on hand in London to handle Peaky Blinder business.

He’s heard about Arthur Shelby. He thinks everyone who’s ever had dealings with the Shelbys has heard about Arthur. He’s _mad_ , that’s what they say— even those that add something after about shell shock. Mad and bad, the worst part of this plague from up North made flesh.

It makes him expect a big man, bigger than Thomas, fists like dustpan lids. What he does not expect is the man he gets, the _narrowness_ of him, bird boned, pale, a sheen of auburn to his hair and freckles on his face absent from his younger brother. Thomas is better looking— looks like he’s fucking carved from ice. But better looking than Arthur.

Agitated, easily, and probably off his face on cocaine— but the man still tries. Tries to be friendly. Is more respectful than he ever expected. Still, the Shelbys themselves are scum, and it’s only that much clearer in the elder, not as smart as Thomas, too dumb to conceal what he is. Out of his depth. A parasite. _Pestilence_. A stupid, little, Northern, dockside Gypsy _rat_.

He had some ideas, things he would do if he had chosen to go along with Sabini’s truce, ways of getting rid of the big man too, the hulking great power-hungry redhead, but in the end he doesn’t go along with it.

Just dinner, inviting the man to break bread with him a few days before the start of Passover— and Arthur’s loud and obnoxious, of course, but beyond that _interested_. Pale eyes fix on his face, that long, narrow head tilts towards him, the man’s body language strangely receptive to everything he has to say. Arthur Shelby even greets him with _shalom_ — it’s almost farcical.

It’s not what he expected.

What he expected was the truth Thomas Shelby is too polished to hide. What he expected was another version of the disgust he saw on Sabini’s face when he’d brought up the girl. The look of a man who makes jokes about the Jews, but not to their faces when their hands are in easy range of weapons.

No, he did not expect _interest_.

He’s not used to generosity from the gentile.

Still, just because Arthur Shelby didn’t come off as a raging anti-Semite on their first meeting, doesn’t mean he likes the man. He’s not really _likeable_ , the elder Shelby.

There’s something wrong with him. Mad, like they say. It’s there in those pale eyes.

Mad in a different way to Thomas though.

Not so dangerous— maybe dangerous when _roused_ — but not so dangerous generally. Too dumb to be dangerous.

The big redhead that’s at the forefront of the Northern invasion, the one Tommy saddled him with first, watches him the entire time, acting the guard dog, something wary in those squinty little eyes. Makes him want to laugh.

He’s not quite sure why his inviting Arthur Shelby to dine with him warrants the man returning the invitation, or why he accepts, even though he knows he’s likely to end up served up a plate of pork chops or something equally as offensive. The fact that this dinner is going to be held at the Eden Club does not raise his expectations.

He has heard that Arthur Shelby is living there now, glutting his little Catholic— or whatever the fucking Gypsies believe in— heart out on cocaine and all their ideas of _sin_.

Again things don’t go like he expects. He does not expect to be greeted by a kosher table. He does not expect the skinny little man to actually do some fucking _research_ before the meal’s prepared— he especially does not expect that Arthur fucking Shelby would hire a Jewish cook for the occasion, just to cook for them, all alone in the empty club aside from the men they have with them, of course, _just in case_.

A strange creature. A very strange creature.

By the time he heads home he’s not sure what he thinks of the man— and that he doesn’t like. Uncertainty is no man’s friend.

He doesn’t go out drinking much, he’s not the kind to visit places like the Eden Club, so he’s not quite sure why he ends up there one night, dressed up like a gentile, jar of petroleum jelly in his pocket. _Frustrated_ , probably, and even though the place is under new management that new management doesn’t seem to have actively acted to deter the rather _lax_ atmosphere of the place. Again, not what he expected.

So he goes to the Eden Club to find a pretty young man, because he’s not the sort of predator who’d ever go after a nice Jewish boy. His place amongst them, his power, relies on him not transgressing certain boundaries. He’s also not an idiot. He’s not the sort of man who’d want to set foot in the kind of club that caters to his sort, but doesn’t have a nice little agreement with the fucking police to get them to turn their vicious fucking heads the other way.

If he has to face the law he’d rather it be for something a bit grander than just being a fucking sodomite.

The problem with going to the Eden Club when Arthur Shelby is there is that apparently Arthur Shelby will take it as an invitation to invite him to drink with him— and will proceed to not let him out of his sight. At first he thinks it’s insulting, thinks the man is _monitoring_ him amongst all the shiksas, thinks the man can’t possibly know what he is, so is doing his best to keep his women safe— But, nah. There’s that _interest_ again, the man hanging onto his every word.

Incomprehensible. Truly.

He starts to get some kind of niggling suspicion when the man then wants to walk him home, the two of them pissed as newts, wobbling all over the place after a night of good whiskey and champagne— and cocaine, but not for him. At first he dismisses it, assumes this is some kind of assassination attempt ordered by the younger Shelby, so insists that they only need to be accompanied by his men and not Arthur’s.

The strange little man agrees. So easily swayed.

Now, he could always cut the man’s throat and fulfil part of his almost promise to Sabini— but he is drunk and it seems like too much trouble.

He talks as they walk, spinning bullshit to the tap of his cane on cobbles, not really thinking about what he’s saying, feeling on the back foot. Like something’s wrong— or not _wrong_ , but like something’s going on that he’s not seeing. Of fucking course Arthur Shelby trots along at his side, big, pale eyes always on him, listening in that way that’s really starting to annoy him.

It’s strange, off-putting, to be the centre of someone’s attention and to not know why.

He’s running hot, the other man, overheated on alcohol and cocaine, the jacket of his suit slung over one arm and the buttons of his neat little waistcoat undone. They’re snappy dressers, the Shelby boys— or at least the two of them he’s seen so far. He’s heard there’s more. But then, you know, _Gypsies_.

It feels a little bit like he’s walking a schoolgirl home, and that’s not really a feeling he wants to be having right now, with this particular man. It puts him on edge.

But whatever it is he’s thinking— and he’s not quite sure, not yet— gets momentarily derailed when the man declares ‘I need a piss,’ in that gruff, vulgar way of his.

He concedes that, yes, he could probably do with a piss too— not that he can’t wait, but some idea of cutting Arthur Shelby’s throat while the man is preoccupied is coming over him again. Not even for Sabini, just to make the man stop making no sense.

The two of them dart into the alley between two buildings, taking opposite sides, his men lurking around by the opening of the place to keep guard. It’s always kind of farcical, being guarded while you piss— But at least he’s not a Roman Emperor, he doesn’t have to worry about the blades of his Praetorian Guard while he’s having a shit.

‘’m not pissing on me fucking shirt again,’ he hears from behind himself mid-stream— which is a bit distracting, weakens the flow for a moment, but soon enough he’s forgetting Arthur Shelby again and his bladder relaxes itself, regains its confidence.

He’d done before the other man, so he tucks his cock back in his trousers— and that’s another odd feeling, being in a dark and private alley with a man, having his cock out, and not having a mouth anywhere near it— and turns around, expecting to be hit with the urge to creep up behind the auburn-haired man and wrap his hands around that long, pale throat.

That is not the urge that hits him.

The urge that hits him in unexpected.

Arthur Shelby, drunk, off his face, uncouth like he always is, has managed to get himself remarkably dishevelled. Waistcoat and shirt all hiked up under his armpits, trousers undone and slouching low on his hips, exposing the curve of one pale buttock.

For a moment he has a terrible understanding of why an arse is so often likened to the moon. Pale and pretty and pleasant to look at. He might have— Well. It’s a _face_ , not much more can be said about it than that— but the small slivers of Arthur Shelby’s body being exposed to his eyes—

The slope of the man’s lower back, the curve of his arse, his neat little waist.

He’s seen a lot of men’s bodies over the years— not just the bodies of men he’s gone to bed with, but bodies you see in the general going about of life, and then the bodies you see in the less general horror of war— but he hasn’t seen that many that rival this strange, abrasive, attentive little man.

All of a sudden he remembers Sabini and who-the-fuck-ever’s son, _sixteen, amenable_. What better way to lead a man around than by his cock.

Is this an incitement, he wonders, _enticement_? Does Arthur Shelby actually know what he is and is that what the man’s after, a big, fat cock to sort out whatever’s gotten scrambled in that stupid little head. It’d make sense of all the interest, turn it into _flirtation_.

He’s not used to men like Arthur Shelby flirting with him.

But maybe he’s wrong. Maybe this is the vicious cleverness of the younger Shelby, maybe this is Tommy whoring out his brother to keep him sweet— He can see the man doing that, maybe. _Ruthless_. There’s definitely something ruthless there.

But maybe he’s wrong again. Maybe Arthur Shelby’s just drunk and pathetic and too stupid to remember how to dress himself.

 _No use getting ahead of yourself_.

The thought still doesn’t stop the words, ‘Have you ever had a man?’ slipping out.

The other man freezes.

There’s something in their air, tension, and for a moment he’s thinking he’s about to face the notorious Arthur Shelby temper— But he’s not afraid. He’s _bigger_ — and even if he wasn’t his men are just _there_ , all of them, armed. So is he. Armed.

‘What do you mean?’ the man asks, eventually, voice small and soft. Something sounding strangely broken there.

He relaxes into a slouch, deliberate, provocative, weight heavy on his cane. ‘I mean,’ he enunciates, ‘Has a man ever put his cock in you?’

There’s no answer and that’s strangely infuriating, so he adds, ‘Do you want a man to put his cock in you?’

That gets the other moving, except instead of lunging for his throat Arthur Shelby starts fussing with his clothes, trying to get himself covered up, the pale curves of him disappearing from sight. ‘What are you—?’ the man stutters a handful of times, before he manages to get out the whole sentence. ‘What are you talking about?’

The man still hasn’t turned around— though he’s now standing hunched in on himself, curled against the grimy brick as if it’ll shield his soft underbelly. It heats his blood, a confusing, unwarranted surge of something like _want_.

He could back away, pretend he never said anything, but nah. He’d like to see where this goes. If it goes badly, then it’s just an excuse to turn on the Shelbys sooner than he was planning. So he says, simple, a statement of fact, ‘I’d rather like to put my cock in you,’ but then, on consideration, adds, ‘If you want me to.’

This gets him a stuttered round of, ‘You’re a—? You’re a—?’

Eventually he takes pity on the man, finishes the sentence for him, ‘Sodomite?’ and at the resulting flinch, ‘Yes I am. Didn’t your brother tell you?’

‘He only tells me as much as he wants me to know,’ comes out steadier than he expected, and wiser. Maybe Arthur Shelby isn’t as much an idiot as he appears.

When the other doesn’t add any more he can’t quite stop himself, can’t quite rein in the provocation, even though by this time he’s sure the answer is _no_. ‘So, do you want me to? Do you want me to put my cock in you? Do you want me to _fuck_ you?’

There is silence for a long moment— Well. Silence between the two of them, silence inside this alley, outside it, even in the buildings bracketing it, life goes on.

‘Not here,’ is not the answer he expects, so for moment he doesn’t quite process it, but when the man adds, ‘Not here, not here— and if I let you, there has to be rules. I’m not going to say yes unless you agree to the rules,’ he finally realises what he’s hearing.

Yes. Arthur Shelby _does_ want his cock.

He’s honestly not sure what to do with that information, now that he’s got it, but since he did offer his cock he might as well get some clarification, in case one of these rules is a deal breaker and means he doesn’t actually have to go through with it. Now he’s had a bit more time to think, now Arthur Shelby’s lovely little arse is no longer on display, now the man has actually said _yes,_ he’s not so sure he does want to go through with it after all.

It’s probably some misplaced urge to fuck over Thomas Shelby. Or just _fuck_ Thomas Shelby. That’ll be it. That makes sense.

‘Explain these rules to me.’

‘Not here, as I said,’ is the first thing the man says, to which he can’t help adding—

‘Yes, you did say. Anything else?’

‘I’ll really— I’ll not do it _here_ ,’ continues Arthur Shelby’s obsession with not getting fucked in this particular alley, but at least this time the man actually adds something to clarify his reasons. ‘It’s _filthy_ —’ and then, ‘—and you’ll let me wash up first. I’m not having you tell me I stink, or I got you dirty.’

‘Is that it?’ he asks, bemused by this sudden obsession with cleanliness when the topic at hand is by nature _unclean_.

‘No. No, it’s not—’ the man’s voice starts to come steadier, though it still doesn’t sound right. ‘You’ll wash your cock too, first, ‘cause no offense, but I honestly don’t know where it’s been—’ well, fair enough. If the man is _demanding_ to do him the service of washing his no doubt filthy arse first, who is he to deny the reciprocal of washing his cock? ‘And you won’t hit me,’ the other adds, before he can agree to the cock washing business, ‘Not before, not during, not after— not even if you didn’t like it. And you’ll keep your hands away from me throat. And you’ll not call me names— no mention of dirty Gypsy or stinking tinker or any of that—’

‘Any more?’ he asks, peering at the man’s back, at the tinge of red that’s come over the nape of his neck. This is the oddest amorous negotiation he’s ever been part of, even with _whores._

‘Yeah,’ Arthur Shelby’s voice cracks, before the man clears his throat and continues, ‘Yeah, you’ll use something slick, not just _spit_ , and you’ll let me keep me gun in reach, so I can stop you if you do anything I don’t like.’

For a moment he just looks at the man. _Now isn’t that all an interesting set of rules._ It implies things. Interesting things. Things that hint that maybe, for both their sakes, he should suggest they just walk away, not continue this any further—

He kind of does want to though, on further consideration. Fuck, he’s been wobbling all over the shop with what he really wants. And, ok, what he really wants is probably not Arthur Shelby, but he did come out tonight looking to end the evening with man on his cock, and if he goes along that’s what he’ll get. A man on his cock. _Arthur Shelby_ on his cock, but—

And now he’s starting to think he doesn’t want to, again. He can’t have this. It’s too much uncertainty.

‘Oh, don’t you worry your pretty little head—’ and maybe that’s outraging the truth a bit, but some part of him does love the irony of it, ‘—I can guarantee you there’s nothing I’ll do that you won’t like.’

‘The _rules,_ though,’ the man snaps.

‘Yeah, yeah, of course,’ he replies. ‘We’ll do this by your rules.’ Which means he’s now suggested he fuck Arthur Shelby, and when the man gave him a way out of it, he blustered through and is _insisting_. He’s insisting he gets to fuck Arthur Shelby.

He better fuck Arthur Shelby like no man before’s ever fucked Arthur Shelby— Which won’t be hard, considering what’s implied by those rules. All he has to do is make it _good_.

Huh.

When you wake up in the morning you don’t know where you’ll be at the end of the day, do you?

Maybe it’s not, though, what he’s thinking. Man’s a Peaky Blinder, even if he hasn’t experienced it himself he has to know what goes on in men’s prisons.

For a moment he wonders what the other expects from this. Whether it really is a way for Arthur Shelby to end the evening putting a bullet in him.

If he’s going to have a man he’s fucking put a bullet in him, he’d rather the man was a bit _prettier_. A bit less Northern too. A bit less related to a man who is currently turning out to be a real pain in the arse.

‘I’ve got a big cock,’ he adds after a moment’s thought. He’s not sure if he means it as a warning or an enticement, but he just feels he should put it out there in case the man decides not letting him know beforehand somehow broke one of those rules. It might, come to think of it. Not every man likes being fucked by a big cock. If he hadn’t learnt how to make it good, or didn’t understand the necessity of petroleum jelly, trying to stick his big cock in the man might end up getting him shot. On that note, ‘I don’t want you to shoot me just because I’ve got a big cock, so I thought I’d tell you now. Do you want to have a look at it, in case it makes you change your mind?’

There’s a pause, then a snort, ‘I’m not afraid of your bloody _cock_.’ 

Well. No one can say he didn’t warn the man. ‘Your funeral, mate,’ then thinking better of it, ‘I mean, not _literally_. It’s a big cock, but it’s not _that_ _big_.’

Arthur Shelby finally turns around, and he’s surprised to see the man’s head up, eyes meeting his own in challenge, ‘You actually intending to do something with it, or are you just gonna talk about it all night?’ then a slightly bitter quirk of those sad brows, ‘You got someplace we can go? I don’t want to do it back at the Club.’

‘Yeah, I’ve got a place,’ he replies, quickly going over and discarding options until he settles on a flat he has nearby, clean, but not too nice. He doesn’t want to give the man the impression this is something _special_. ‘Yeah. A place I sometimes take boys, _men_. Mainly men.’ His cock’s like the British army, he prefers the men who serve it to be over eighteen— but sixteen, seventeen— the ones that have lived the kind of life he and Arthur Shelby have, they’re men too.

‘Ok,’ the man replies, with a nervous little nod. ‘Ok. Ok— you— you lead on.’

When they leave the alleyway, his men are the picture of perfect fucking professionalism. He doesn’t see so much as a twitch of an eyebrow, not even when he changes course to lead them all to the flat in question. Good lads. He’s not quite sure what he would’ve done if any of them looked like they were questioning him about the wisdom or even the _desirability_ of taking Arthur Shelby to bed. He’s doing it now. No turning back.

The flat’s all done up in dark red and dark wood, trimmed in places with gold— all of which, yeah, wasn’t a particular choice of his, he just bought it like that. He suspects that before he used it for its current purpose some other fucker was probably doing the same, only they gave enough fucks to try and make it look the part. Like a brothel or something. A decently expensive one. All he cares about is that it’s clean, since that’s apparently an issue for the man he’s got with him, it’s got a bed, a _big_ bed— maybe too big as it takes up most of the fucking room— and a little bathroom thing attached. No bath though. Just a toilet and a sink. As he sees it a sink’s enough for Arthur Shelby to use to wash his arse.

His men wait outside, lurking in the hall with a level of poise he’s not sure he’d be able to enact himself, if the shoe was on the other foot.

‘I’ll just go wash me cock,’ he declares, while Arthur Shelby is standing at the edge of the bed— edge of the room really, but the edge of the room is at the edge of the bed because of how small the room it— staring at the great lump of a thing, all covered in red and black velvet and numerous pillows.

Now, the bed did not come with the room, for all that it looks like it did, but he got Ollie to arrange it for him, and the man apparently decided to go with something _matching_. It’d be embarrassing, if the way he can tell it’s intimidating Arthur Shelby wasn’t vaguely amusing.

He does as he said, leaning his cane against the wall before stripping himself down to his shirtsleeves in the bathroom, pulling his cock out of his trousers and washing it in the sink with a bar of pale pink, rose perfumed soap, standing awkward, hips thrust forward, and glad the fucking thing is at perfect cock height for what he’s doing. _What the fuck is he even doing?_ No one he’s gone to bed with before has ever asked him to wash his cock first.

Arthur Shelby’s from fucking _Birmingham_. It’s all coal dust and filth up there, so why— Well. Maybe that is why. Maybe getting fucked with a clean cock, a cock not covered in coal dust, is a luxury worth fighting for if that’s what you’re used to.

Cock washed and dried on one of the little towels he keeps in there, then shoved back in his trousers, he leaves the bathroom, coat slung over his arm. Arthur Shelby is where he left him. ‘Your turn,’ he declares, smirking a little at the way it makes the man jump, stare at him with wide, pale eyes, then scurry off to the bathroom in turn.

While he’s waiting for the man to wash his arse he fishes out the little jar of petroleum jelly, placing it on one of the two tiny, gilded nightstands bracketing the bed. Then he looks at his coat, down at himself, at the gun holstered under his arm.

If Arthur Shelby gets to have a gun close by in case _he_ does something, shouldn’t he get to have his own gun in case _Arthur Shelby_ does something? Seems sensible. He pulls the thing from its holster and places it on the nightstand next to the petroleum jelly, before folding up his jacket and placing it on the end of the bed.

Then he waits. And he waits. And he _waits_ — has the man changed his mind? Fallen in the sink and drowned himself? He can’t have climbed out any windows and escaped, because there aren’t any windows in the tiny little bathroom.

Then, right when he’s about to run out of patience and maybe go beating on the door and demanding to know if the man’s _going to bring his arse out here so he can stick his cock in it or what?_ The door opens and out steps Arthur Shelby, stark fucking bollock _naked_.

And holding his gun, can’t forget that, but also not in a threatening way.

 _What a fucking body_. He had underestimated it from the little glimpse he got between shirt and trousers before. It’s a fucking _poem_. A fucking waste, because any sensible God would take a body like that and bolt on a pretty face and maybe a better attitude.

He’s got a tiny fucking waist. _Tiny_. He’s never quite understood that thing men have, men that are not his sort, about little waists on women, but he’s kind of getting it right now. He couldn’t span Arthur Shelby’s waist with his hands, his hands are not that big and the waist isn’t that small, but he bets he could come closer than he ever has with pretty much anyone else he’s ever fucked. Or been about to fuck— the actual fucking hasn’t happened yet of course.

The thought of putting his big hands on that little waist while he’s got that pretty body pinned under him, _open for him_ , makes him feel like a _brute_. But in a _good_ way. Makes him feel like he’s got a big cock— which he does, of course, but there’s having a big cock and _feeling_ like you have a big cock. There’s a difference.

He’s got a nice-looking cock too. Arthur Shelby

He’s not circumcised, of course, so there’s the strangeness of looking at a cock with the foreskin still on— and he’s still soft, so that foreskin’s covering all the way to the tip, hiding it from his eyes, but it’s still a nice cock. A normal kind of size for a soft cock, a normal kind of thickness, and a pale pink, pale like the man’s little nipples.

His balls seem like they’re a bit darker, but that might just be the hair there. It’s lighter than he expected, a dark blond with just a tint of auburn, the bush thick, but not spreading that far, not encroaching much onto upper thighs and lower belly, just contained to the flesh around his cock and balls, with a thin trail leading upwards. Arms, legs, chest, belly— there’s only a faint sprinkling of auburny hair there too, dusting across all those fucking _freckles_. The man has a _lot_ of fucking freckles. He’s not sure he’s ever fucked a man with as many fucking freckles as Arthur Fucking Shelby.

The man shifts, just a little, a nervous kind of shifting of his weight that reminds him strangely of a horse— and he realises he’s just been standing there, looking. _Leering_ , really.

‘If you don’t wanna anymore, then just say,’ the other man snaps at him.

It takes him a moment to realise that Arthur Shelby thinks he’s _disappointed_ in what he’s seeing. ‘Your body’s fucking _gorgeous_ , mate,’ he points out. ‘So of course I wanna. Now get on the bed.’

Maybe that was pushing things too far, because it makes the man freeze up, every muscle locked like a good girl from good family on her wedding night, when she realises the handsome Captain she married is very much not a _good_ man. ‘Well, if you want it standing up, I’m not going to argue,’ he says, just to see what’ll happen next.

Apparently what’ll happen next is that Arthur Shelby will jerk to attention, then climb onto the bed, lay his gun on the other nightstand, and lie down on his belly, quivering all the while like a little fifteen year old boy that really should not have gone off to war, really isn’t a man for all he thought he was, and now has his gun pointing at his head. He thinks about this for a moment, eying the gun, eying Arthur Shelby, eying Arthur Shelby’s hand outstretched so close to the gun.

No. No. Better do it face to face, that way he can keep watch on the man’s pale eyes, can spot if the other’s really about to reach for the weapon and use it to blow his stupid fucking brains out. Talk about being led around by your cock. How did he even get here?

‘Turn over,’ he instructs, realising he should probably so something to catch up on the clothes removal front. The idea of fucking the other while the other’s naked and he’s fully dressed is a bit interesting, but honestly sounds more uncomfortable than anything. They’re inside. There’s a bed. There’s a whole little jar of petroleum jelly, no need to do this like a back alley fumble.

He strips, folding his clothes as he does and laying them with his jacket on the end of the bed. His cock’s not exactly hard, but it’s not soft either. There is some interest there, bodily interest, but he’s thinking he’ll probably have to get a hand on himself and give it a wank if he really intends to go through with this. He really does have a big cock. He wonders if Arthur Shelby is impressed. He looks up at the man to check— and the other’s still face down.

‘Nah, nah,’ he says, climbing onto the bed and crawling over to the man— getting his hands on that narrow little waist— ignoring the full body flinch at his touch, but keeping his eyes on that hand and the gun the whole time — and heaving, flipping the other onto his back. ‘I like to do it face to face.’ He figures if he says _I wanna fuck **specifically** **you** face to face so I can hopefully work out if you’re going to shoot me_ it probably won’t go down well.

The problem with flipping the man onto his back is that now he can see the other’s _afraid_. _Terrified_ really. Whole body tense and shivering, eyes wide, something staring back up at him that isn’t quite the man he’s getting to know. It’s _animal_ whatever it is. Animal and used to getting _hurt_.

Without meaning to his touch turns gentle, soothing, his hands petting at the flesh of that narrow waist, narrow hips, lean little legs. ‘It’s all right love,’ slips out, ‘I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m gonna make you feel real good.’

He really should stop this now. He really should. It’s giving him a bit of a power rush though, the way Arthur Shelby— _Arthur Shelby_ , the Peaky blinders _mad fucking dog_ — is looking up at him like he’s in complete control, like even if the man wanted to reach for that gun his hands wouldn’t be able to do it.

His cock gives an interested twitch.

 _Odd, the things you learn about yourself_.

This close he can smell the scent of rose soap, feel the skin beneath his hands is a little damp— He leans in, sniffing the man, beard brushing at a pale shoulder as he snuffles into a long neck taking in the scent of roses. Huh. Turns out the man meant _wash all of himself_ , not just his _arse_.

He does not know what to think of that.

Ok. Ok. Best get to it.

He grabs the little jar of petroleum jelly of the nightstand and unscrews the lid, flinging it carelessly over his shoulder to bounce of the wall and then clatter against the floor. He plops the jar on the bed for a moment— Arthur Shelby’s wide, pale eyes following the motion— so he can get a good grip on the man’s right leg, lifting and bending it, until it lies pressed against that narrow chest, knee to shoulder, to give him access. _Flexible_. Hm. A little hum of pleasure runs through him at the thought. He pushes at the man’s other leg, encouraging it to splay outwards a bit, before grabbing the jar again.

Two fingers dip in, gouge out a great lump of the grease, before he unceremoniously slides them into the shadowed place at the apex of the man’s thighs, smearing the jelly up his arsecrack from the knob of his tailbone up to just under his balls.

Arthur Shelby lets out a tiny, punched out noise, whole body squirming— though whether it’s away from his touch or towards it he honestly can’t tell.

He pulls his greasy hand away, slicking the petroleum jelly left on his fingers over his cock, and then giving it a few rough pumps. It’s firming up, blood rushing southwards at a combination of direct stimulation and whatever the fuck it is that’s doing it for him in this situation.

Before he gets to the fingering part of the proceedings he places the jar back on the nightstand, turning back to find Arthur Shelby looking at him like a man about to face the firing squad. He blinks. The man flinches, squeezing pale eyes shut, the long, knobbly fingers of one hand clenching desperately in the velvet covers, the other edging a little towards the nightstand where the man’s gun sits.

Ok. Ok. Option one, he gets the fuck out of here. Option two, he gets a couple of fingers up Arthur Shelby’s arse and distracts the man from whatever it is going on in his head well enough that he doesn’t end up shot.

Option one is the more sensible option. Option two is, strangely enough, the more _appealing_.

Yeah, funny what does it for you.

Careful, gentle, he reaches out again, sliding his still slippery fingers back into the man’s arsecrack, the pad of his middle finger feeling around until it lands on the furl of his hole. He starts to rub, circling around and around softly, hoping that somehow the man with relax so this won’t hurt too much and land him with a bullet between his ears.

‘What are you—?’ the man squeaks out, pale eyes open and again and watching him in confusion.

‘I’m fingering you open, love,’ he answers, part of his mind taking new evidence and putting it together with old evidence, and promptly deciding to ignore it for now. ‘I said I was going to make you feel good, didn’t I? Having a big cock like mine shoved up you without a bit of care and attention first is _not_ going to make you feel good.’

‘Oh,’ it’s almost whispered out. It takes the mad dog and makes him seem something small and soft and gentle, like one of those fluffy, squash faced things rich ladies have wearing the skin of a guard dog.

I makes him feel— _something_ — but because that something is not a feeling he particularly wants to have right now he distracts them both by pushing forward with his finger, feeling a momentary spasming resistance, before the excess of grease lets it slip in smooth as silk.

The other man makes a sound like he’s been stabbed, but he decides to ignore that too, in favour of feeling around up there until the tip of his finger hits— _Ah, yes, **there**_. he prods, gentle, and then tries rubbing, watching the man beneath him look more and more confused, hearing the way the short, sharp little breaths of terror become something deeper as the pleasure of having _whatever it is that God chose to put up men’s arses to make being fucked up there feel good_ stimulated overcomes a bit of what must be a bone deep conviction that this thing they’re doing is going to _hurt_.

He figures the _whatever it is_ is something like the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, one of God’s little jokes, all _here have this, it’s wonderful— but if you do give into temptation I’m gonna fucking **punish you**_.

Arthur Shelby does not seem to know what to do with the sensation of having his little apple rubbed. It’s like it’s making the man go off somewhere in his own head, staring off into nothing, whole body starting to shift into the movement of his finger— Well. At least he looks less trigger happy now. That pretty pink cock is even starting to swell—

Mind you his own is well and truly on the way to hard. Not even _on the way_ , just _hard_.

The man beneath him has a lovely little body, is nice to look at— even his face isn’t that bad, on closer inspection— and is tight and twitching. He’ll probably feel real nice wrapped around his cock.

Probably time to add another finger.

Pulling back and pushing in with two makes the man tense up again, makes pale eyes come back present, flicking back over to the gun in a worrying kind of way. ‘There, there love,’ he soothes, petting at the man’s shin, tucked against his chest, then down the leg to his hip, his narrow little waist, ‘You’re doing real well. Opening up real nice. Didn’t it feel good, when I touched you like this?’ with that he pushes both fingers into place, rubbing their tips against where he knows it feels good for the man.

‘I don’t—’ Arthur Shelby pants out. ‘I don’t— I don’t—’

‘What, love?’ he coos, soft and gentle, grinding his fingers against the other’s sweet spot mercilessly. ‘You don’t understand why it feels good?’

The man bleats, whatever words were in there lost to the noise. He doesn’t think bringing up the caprice of God while he’s got his fingers up a man whose faith he is uncertain of is a good idea— or at least not while the man in question has a gun nearby— so he simply says, ‘It doesn’t matter why, does it? Only that it does. And it _does_ , doesn’t it? I can see that. See you were made for this, love.’

‘Oh _God_ ,’ the man groans, body flexing beneath him, twisting either to pull away or to try and push back against the sensation.

It’s _erotic_. The way the man moves. The way his _body_ moves—

‘Another finger,’ he grunts, pulling back to push the third in as well. He’s got to hurry up. Body burning, excitement coursing through him, cock twitching.

To think there was ever any doubt in him that he wanted to fuck Arthur Shelby.

Another few moments of rubbing, this time with all three fingertips, and then he forces himself to focus on actually stretching the man out, fingers splitting, scissoring, working the petroleum jelly he smeared around the man’s hole into that dark place, trying to create a space for his cock in that tight heat. The other man takes it well— in as much as he takes it with confused pleasure but no attempts to reach for the gun— and soon, too soon probably, he’s telling himself it’s done. The man’s loose enough. He can fuck him now.

He pulls back his hand, fingers scooping any spare grease from the man’s arsecrack that he can, before going back to his poor, neglected cock, smearing more of it around, but trying not to rub this time, touching as gently as he can. He may have to shoot the other man instead if he goes off before he can get it inside. He does not want the man running around with the idea that Jewish men can’t keep up their end of the bargain.

‘It might hurt now,’ he tells the other as he edges in close, grabbing for the leg still lying on the bed and wrapping it around his waist, ‘But only for a moment. Only for a moment, I promise, any more than that and you tell me and I’ll stop, ok. I’ll _stop_. It’ll feel good after the moment. I promise you it’ll feel good then.’

The other man doesn’t say anything, that look on his face again like he’s going to his death, like he’s got something like the suicide highs. Pale eyes are wide— and actually quite a nice colour— and all the muscles in the man’s body have tensed up again, quivering, pretty pink cock deflating. ‘You have to relax love, I don’t want to tear you.’

‘No, no,’ the man murmurs at that, voice faint and airy, strange and far away, ‘Don’t do that. I don’t want that.’

‘Don’t want my cock, or don’t want me to tear you?’ he checks. If the answer is his _cock_ he better stop. It’d be rape if he didn’t stop. Even if he doesn’t want to stop.

‘Tear,’ the man breathes out. ‘I don’t want you to tear me.’

‘Ok. Ok love,’ he replies, hand shaky with nerves and want as he gets it down between them to guide his cock in. ‘I don’t want that either— so breathe. Remember to breathe. I’m just going to—’

He pushes. A momentary, twitchy resistance, then it gives way and his hips slip forward, cockhead popping through the man’s hole easier than he expected.

Arthur Shelby makes a sound like he’s just been shot, but he can’t really pay attention to that right now, or to even watching to make sure the man isn’t reaching for his gun. _Tight_. Tight and warm and—

God. It has been too long since he had a fuck.

‘Oh, you’re _lovely_ ,’ he breathes out, half mad, half delirious with it. ‘You feel so good. Fuck you feel good.’

The leg pressed between them twitches a little at that, an aborted kick, and the one around his waist tightens up, and his hips slip forward, without him thinking about it, cock in charge, leading him on into paradise.

‘ _Don’t_ ,’ he hears it, a tiny breath of sound. ‘ _Don’t, don’t, don’t_ —’

He stops, feeling like he’s spraining every muscle in the core of him as he does. ‘Am I hurting you too much love?’ he grits out.

No reply.

Looking up into the man’s face and he can see Arthur Shelby is somewhere else, having something else done to him. He looks pale and frightened and like a child, eyes wide and uncomprehending as they fix on the ceiling. Well. Yes. Fuck. Very probably he should not have followed through when he first got the inkling that _something_ might have happened to the man before—

But Arthur Shelby is hardly the first man he’s had that’s been— and he has managed to make it good before, for the others, in the past, and—

 _Selfish and stupid and led around by his cock_. He might not like the man beneath him much, but that doesn’t mean he particularly wants to _hurt him_ , or at least not hurt him right now, like this. ‘Do you need me to pull out, love?’ he asks, holding very, very still. ‘If you need me to pull out I will. It’s alright. We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.’ Fuck. He does want to though. Now he’s here, cock partway up Arthur Shelby.

The man doesn’t react for a very long time, long enough that he thinks that, yes, he probably should start a strategic withdrawal, apologizing to his cock in his mind as he starts to edge his hips back.

A hand clamps down on his shoulder. He looks up into the man’s face, finds a frown there, but pale eyes present. ‘You’ll pull out if I want you to?’ the man asks.

He nods. ‘That I will.’

‘You will?’ the man asks again, double checking.

‘I will definitely, most assuredly, pull out if you want me to,’ he replies.

After a long, and somewhat fraught, moment the man nods, something unreadable on that long face. A moment later the leg between them is pushing against him, pushing him back a bit, and he’s thinking that this must be a signal to complete his withdrawal, but the moment the man has enough space between them the leg is wriggling free and then wrapping around his waist, both the man’s legs clenching tight, pulling his hips in close, his cock slipping the rest of the way in with a jerk. ‘I don’t want you to,’ the man says. ‘I want you to fuck me like you promised.’

Well. Ok then.

He starts slow, like a gentleman, but when the other man seems to be enjoying himself, taking it with no further problems, he starts to speed up, until his hips are snapping forward, pulling back, snapping forward, working away like some kind of steam engine. He feels kind of like a steam engine too, big and powerful, fucking mechanised and unstoppable.

Each thrust punches a little noise out of the throat of the man beneath him, but they don’t seem to be bad noises, and after a bit, after his hips must find the right angle, because Arthur Shelby starts thrusting back against him, he feels that pink cock start to swell between them.

He pulls back enough to get a look, sees the foreskin retracting back, the head peeking out— first pink, then flushing darker, redder. When it’s hard it’s nice to look at too, longer and a bit skinnier than he expected, but in shapely kind of way— like Arthur Shelby himself.

He wants to get a hand on it, but he also wants to grope at the man’s hips, his waist, his surprisingly shapely arse— it’s a man’s arse, not round and soft like a woman’s, but there’s still a surprising curve to it, for all it’s narrow and kind of boxy. Nice. It feels good beneath his palms when he gets them on it, when he starts lifting the other’s hips into his thrusts, trying to drive himself _deeper_.

‘Touch your cock,’ he grunts out. ‘I wanna see you touch your cock.’

Arthur Shelby touches his cock, wrapping long, knobbly fingers around it and starting to stroke, and that’s exciting to look at too— the way the foreskin moves up and down the shaft, the head being hidden for a moment behind flesh or fingers, before peeking out again. Fuck. He does love looking at a man touching his own cock.

‘Fuck you’re sexy, _why are you so fucking sexy?’_ he breathes, stunned stupid by it for a moment. It doesn’t make any sense, goes against everything he would have expected from everything anyone’s ever told him about the other man.

‘’M not,’ he hears, a bleat of sound, but his orgasm’s rushing up on him from somewhere unexpected, an ambush he never saw coming, and before he can think anything more, he’s coming, hunching forward with a grunt, face pressed against the rose scented skin of the man’s shoulder, mouth opening, sucking, laving at the flesh while his hips grind and grind and grind his seed in deep.

He heaves, gasps, lying there stunned absolutely stupid for a moment, before enough sense comes over him that he gets his own hand in between them, batting Arthur Shelby’s away from that pink cock so he can grab at it, wrap it in his own petroleum jelly greased palm, and tug a matching orgasm out of the man.

As he peaks the man’s arse spasms around his softening cock, sending lightening aftershocks up his spine, making his hips hump forward helplessly, his cock sliding in and out on a river of petroleum jelly and his seed, making everything between them slick and hot and slimy.

 _Fuck_. ‘Fuck,’ he breathes. ‘That was—’

That was some fuck. A fucking amazing fuck.

A moment of uncoordinated shifting between them and his cock slips out, expelled with a slimy little rivulet of his spend— _fuck_ — His hand’s still on the other man’s cock, and there’s more seed there, Arthur’s, and it’s all—

He’s pulled back and is kissing the man before he gets a chance to think better of it, tongue pushing in, hungry, probing, licking at the sour taste of old whiskey and champagne, their facial hair catching, rubbing. A little noise, soft and wounded, and all of a sudden he’s got both of Arthur’s arms wrapped around his shoulders and the man is kissing him back, eager, almost _desperate_.

It’s good. God it’s good.

They probably look real fucking ridiculous then, him squashing the man to the bed, kissing like someone’s going to shoot them if they stop, and sort of squirming against each other. His cock’s kind of interested, but at the same time it’s not firming up properly, even when he rubs it up against the other man’s own half hard cock, everything sliding together in a wet mess of spunk and petroleum jelly.

One of Arthur’s hands leaves his shoulders and worms its way in between them, and a moment later he feels the first fumblings of the man touching him, the tips of long fingers exploring the shape of his cock, lingering for a moment over the scar of his circumcision— and the thinks maybe that’ll be it, that’ll get the man rearing back and saying something that will give him no choice but to _punch_ , break one of the man’s stupid fucking rules— but a moment later the man’s hand is wrapping properly around him and stroking.

His body gives a valiant effort. He’s not fifteen any more, he can’t just lie around all afternoon doing nothing but tugging his cock, but he does come closer than he has in a long time to firming up again properly so soon after coming. In the end though, well, in the end the desperation starts to ease off as exhausting kicks in, and one moment they’re kissing, one moment he’s lying on the other man, his cock cupped gently in a long-fingered hand that’s no longer moving, and the next moment he’s waking up as the bed beneath him bounces and shifts and a weight settles in next to him again.

He lies there, face down for a moment with a sore head from too much drink, trying to work out what the fuck is going on.

That’s right.

He fucked Arthur Shelby.

He thinks about it, waits for disgust or regret to come swarming up— but mainly what he feels is satisfied in a way he can’t remember feeling for a long time. It was a bloody excellent fuck, top notch— aside from a few moments in which he worried the man was going to shoot him, and also when the man went a bit funny because of whatever it is some other bastard must have done to him in the past— but otherwise _excellent_.

Ok. Ok. Yes, he would rather like to do that again.

Not quite what he expected, but here we are. He imagines Sabini offering up this sixteen-year-old cousin again and watching him turn his nose up to go chasing off after Arthur Shelby— and it’s funny. Funny not even on him. Arthur Shelby has fucking _sex appeal_ — and he’d bet he’s the only lucky bastard that knows it.

Anyway. Yes. He would like to fuck the man again— but from the light he can see filtering in through his eyelids he’d guess it’s day now, and whatever insanity that was between them might be over now. He’d rather it wasn’t, but if he’s going to have to try and negotiate to get between those long skinny legs again he’s going to have to go have a piss first.

With a grunt he heaves himself off the bed and totters into the bathroom, pissing with his eyes half squinted shut, before tottering to the sink to wash spunk and petroleum jelly off his hands with rose scented soap. When they’re clean enough he can use them to scoop up some water and wash his face, trying to wake up properly, before sticking his mouth under the tap to have a drink.

The man that looks back at him from the mirror above the sink looks smug and self-satisfied, which he is, and a bit rough. _Well fucked_ , basically. He smooths out his moustache with a couple of fingers, then exits the bathroom, cock swinging with every step.

Arthur is sitting in the bed, covers pulled up over his hips, looking at him anxiously— and far too close to that fucking gun for comfort.

He wonders if this is regret on the man’s face. If the man is going to accuse him of _rape_. If he’s about to finally have that gun waved at him— but the other just watches him, wary.

He edges closer to the bed, the other man getting tenser and tenser as he does, pale eyes flicking from his face down to what he at first thinks is his cock, before he realises is his _hands_. Huh. On intuition he raises one, reaches a little towards the other man—

Arthur flinches, full body, eyes snapping shut and head ducking down. _He expects to be hit_.

Well, when he was talking about his rules he did say—

 _Someone has been a fucking **brute** to this man in the past, it’s pretty clear now— but past is past, and he may be a brute, but not **that** kind of brute_.

He imagines trying to ease in close, imagines wrapping hands around that narrow waist and pulling the man under him, away from the gun, taking his lips in a kiss— but Arthur is unpredictable, and he really does not want to get shot right now, so— ‘Can I kiss you again?’ he asks, easing a knee onto the bed and waiting, ready to leap out of range if the man takes the question badly.

Pale eyes open, the man blinking at him, ‘Kiss me?’

He nods. ‘Yeah. Can I? Again?’

‘I—’ the man splutters, eying him, eying his hands, eying his _cock_ , and then nervously glancing at the gun. ‘You mean _kiss me_?’

He wonders if that’s the man asking if he’s in danger of getting fucked again, or if it’s a thing about the hitting, but instead of asking he just nods, replying with, ‘Yes. Kiss you.’

After a moment he gets a hesitant nod, so he lets himself shift a bit further onto the bed, crawling over slowly until they’re sitting side by side. The man’s breathing quickly again, clearly frightened, and smelling once more like freshly used rose soap.

That must be what woke him, Arthur getting back into bed after going to wash up. Odd, but not the oddest thing he’s ever experienced.

He leans in slowly, making sure the man can read what he’s doing, and takes thin lips in a kiss that he means to be gentle, but quickly turns just as hungry as the night before. _Kissing, just kissing_ , does not stay _just kissing_ , because once more Arthur’s arms wrap around his shoulders again, and his own hands do find their way to that narrow waist, and then he does end up doing what he imagined, tugging the man under him once more.

Slender legs go straight around his waist, narrow hips jumping under him as the man thrusts that pink cock up against his own, and he could just do this, finish like this, rubbing off against each other like eager schoolboys, but his hands are wandering and—

It’s disappointing to find much of the slick cleaned away when he gets a couple of fingers up into the man’s arsecrack again, but the man’s hole is still hot and swollen beneath his touch, even if the muscle has tightened most of the way back up again. ‘Petroleum jelly,’ he gasps, rearing back to grab the jar from the nightstand, getting his fingers in there quickly, blinking as the man beneath him steals some from his hand and then reaches down between them, wrapping slick fingers around his firming cock and giving it a tug.

Well. Ok. Turns out he’s not the only one who’s eager.

He applies what’s left on his fingers to the man’s hole, fingering him efficiently, barely able to pull his hand back before _Arthur_ is actually pulling his cock into place. ‘Fuck me,’ the man grunts against his ear moments before he lunges forward, cockhead slipping in again and making them both make low, ugly sounds.

It’s quick and it’s hard, and they do it with Arthur’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, legs around his waist, their lips pressed together, kissing when they have breath to, but just breathing against each other’s mouths by the end.

It’s fucking _amazing_.

It only takes a couple of tugs of the man’s cock from the hand he somehow gets between the press of their bodies before Arthur peaks, him following the moment the man’s arse starts twitching around him.

After they keep kissing, kissing, kissing, until he can’t stop the words spilling out, first mumbled into the other man’s mouth, then spoken out loud when he pulls back, ‘I wanna do this again. Tell me you’ll let me do this again. I wanna do this again. I wanna keep fucking doing this.’

Beneath him the other man goes still, says nothing for a long, worrying moment, pale eyes roaming his face, assessing, then, ‘Yeah. Alright. We can do this again.’

Next time he takes Arthur to one of his better flats.

And the time after that one of his _best_ flats.

And the time after that—


End file.
